Barcode
by funky pink high top
Summary: {CHAPTER 7} You're broken for a reason. A fic in the point of view of the infamous Heather Sinclair.
1. Prologue

Slutty, broken, shameful. These words follow the dim light that swallows me nightly. I'm offered a pseudo-sympathy from my worn childhood teddy bear. Worn, torn, reborn. It understands our joint de-virginity. It doesn't scold me as I curl up on my bed and hope to die softly, slowly, reasonably. It knows it will all fade when morning comes, when I'm greeted with sunlight and voices and passion. If they come at all.  
  
I close my eyes as slightly as I can without the glow of night leaving my eyes. Snow blankets the ground and allows an orange-y radiance through my window. It is a slight comfort. It reminds me of vacationing and fruits and sales. These are normal, healthy, loving things. The bitter un- reality of reality.  
  
I open my eyes again. There is no point in closing them. I get up, abandoning the teddy bear for the mirror, like I did years ago. I turn on the light. The grayness of my skin does not go away with the darkness.  
  
Violet is carved under my eyes. The long blonde hair that surrounds my blank expression sticks in all directions, waiting, yearning, wanting my hairbrush. My lips are chapped. My features are mouse-like. I'm a sickly doll and a prostitute and scared, just scared. Black eyeliner cakes the eyelashes everyone adores. Dried mascara rivers are left unwashed on my caved in cheeks. I look essentially like a heroin addict. I turn off the light and climb back into bed, suddenly weary.  
  
The ceiling is blank and welcoming. I pull the teddy back into my arms and let it stare with me. We are put the same person now.  
  
The whispers are staying with me. I hear them with Paige Michalchuk's amused smile. Whispers, rumors, lies. Funny how they seem so true. I believe sometimes. But I learned a long time ago, believing isn't a good idea. Believing at all.  
  
Waking is rushing closer. My alarm clock reads 6:32 AM. It is so harsh, unforgiving, unsympathetic. I knock it over by-accident-on-purpose. It goes off. I get up.  
  
The bathroom tile is cold on my feet. Different mirror, same reflection. I wash away the mascara. It goes running down the drain and my mind follows it, robotically doing the routine. I am beautiful again, hair brushed and blonde, cover-up covering, lips coated in cherry. I'm ready to smile again. I'm innocent in the skankiest way. I'm reluctant. I hate this. I hate life. I just want to curl up in the dark again, try sleeping, try dreaming. I kick and scream and hate on the inside.  
  
Then I stick a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth and go to school. 


	2. Faith and Beautiful Eyes

A/N: Thanks and pick-up lines go to those who reviewed. I'm getting positive energy from all of you. I'd like to thank Hannah especially for the constructive criticism. It just happens to be my style. It's okay if you don't pick up on it.  
  
Sorry for the delay too. I was partying it up on the Virgin Is-lands. Shyeah I be jammin'!  
  
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She has a shield of sympathy. She always seems to. Hazel is a nice girl; brimming with compassion. She doesn't want to speak to me though. I am rejected in the strangest sense; well-known in a roll-your-eyes kind of way.  
  
"What was the English homework?," I ask, stalling time, waiting for a chance. She doesn't give it, just smiles sympathetically. I hate her for a moment.  
  
"We didn't have any," She says, and turns back to Paige. There is a story being told, a very important story, a story far greater than me. I listen vaguely, wondering if I should jump in.  
  
"And then, it was so sweet, he told me I had the most beautiful eyes," Paige smiles, remembering, beaming, confident. It's such a gift, after all, to be in love with your perfect boyfriend. I turn away. When you're unhappy people, you tend to dismiss happy people as obnoxious. When you're happy yourself, unhappy people are obnoxious. It is one big circle of bitter despair. Like recycling.  
  
Hazel replies supportive best friend bullshit. I suddenly feel so alone. I doodle on my notebook and the night crawls back to me on broken legs. I want attention and death and a Tootsie roll. I stare down at my wish bracelet. You know, with beads and hemp and symbolism that you wear until it falls off and your wish is to come true. I stare into the rosy pinkness of the beads, blanking on the symbolism. Fortune? No. Harmony? Love? Money? Nothing seemed right.  
  
"Heather?" I've zoned out. Hazel's confused, Paige isn't surprised. This will no doubt spark a stoner rumor. "Hello?"  
  
"Sorry," I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. "What?"  
  
"Way to pay attention, hon," Paige is terribly amused by this.  
  
"I just asked if you wanted to come tonight," Hazel replies, in a doubtful way now. She's regretting her generosity.  
  
"To what?"  
  
"I'm having a party," She explains while Paige lets out a small, impatient sigh. "My parents are out of town and my aunt doesn't really care. Do you want to come?" She doesn't really want me to come. To screw her party into the ground.  
  
"I don't know if I can," I say in a vague way. This is the way I usually answer questions. "I'll try." They nod and smile in their own ways and go on to talking about the sort of things best-friends-4-eva talk about. I look down at my bracelet again, feeling the rough, dirty hemp and hard, unforgiving beads. Wasn't hemp marijuana or something? My oblivion amuses me momentarily.  
  
I think of the party and chapped lips and The Odyssey until focusing on the question at hand. To go or not to go? I could dress up and be sociable and normal and maybe even dance. Or maybe stand in the corner and wait for some pitying human being to come and have an awkward exchange with me.  
  
I look at my bracelet again. Oh, yeah. Faith. 


	3. Waiting

~@~  
  
Warning: Drug content. Run-on sentences are present. I dearly hope it's not R, but do feel free to badger me if it is.  
  
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Compromises, I've learned, come with the price of effort. Going to the party is in, dancing, out. Sociable, possibly, and dressing up, not likely.  
  
My mother watches as I pace. She opens her mouth, but I don't hear her. She wants to be a good mother, a beauty queen, a lawyer, a doctor, a porn star, a florist. Liar by nature, curious by law.  
  
"Are you listening to me?"  
  
No.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No you're not," She stops herself and sprawls on my bed. "I was just asking what was on your mind."  
  
"Nothing," I reply. "I don't think. I'm a teenager."  
  
"I'm serious, Heather," She lights a cigarette. "Tell me what's going on in school. Are you having fun? You seem so moody lately. What's the matter?" She puts out her cigarette, looking at me. I hear her silent mind chanting, good mother, good mother.  
  
"I'm going to a party tonight," I offer in a rare moment of charity. It passes quickly and I begin to pace again.  
  
"Ooh," She squeals, and my ears and heart are broken. "Why don't you wear that pink tank I gave you on your birthday?"  
  
"Because I don't wear pink," I lie.  
  
"Heather," She says witheringly. I hate names. "You know that's a lie. You're just trying to get under my skin." I open my mouth, waiting for the ugly words to fall out. They don't. I suddenly wish we could be like normal people, and talk about dental appointments and our plumbing problems. People like us, however, feel the need to talk about things like lying and stupidity and prostitution. We are two of a kind, my mother and me.  
  
"I have to get ready." I'm dismissing her, letting her go, slip away. She stays on the bed and clutches, looking around.  
  
"Where are all your posters?," She prods me motionlessly, sticking her questions into my spine. I wince. "I bought you all this stuff for your room and you take it down. You even picked it all out. What's going on, Heather?"  
  
"Nothing," I repeat, irritated. Go away. Leave me alone. Die in a fiery pit. "I'm fine. I need to get ready."  
  
"You do," She stares at me. "You really do." I have the oddest feeling we aren't talking about the same thing anymore. Intensity rises. Her gaze doesn't drop. I look away, ashamed and broken again, naked.  
  
"Look," I say hotly, "I'll wear the fucking shirt if you just leave."  
  
"Fine," She stands, finally. "Watch your tongue." She leaves, and I stare at the floor. It's hard when she's right. The walls remain blank. What DID happened? My mind travels to the closet, boxes of posters, paintings, pictures, stacked, taking up space. I find myself by the closet now, opening doors, opening boxes, waiting again. Waiting.  
  
Nothing happens. I see memories. I don't care. I have found the pink tank top and I have a box full of crap. This is all that I have.  
  
I pull on the shirt, put away the box, and I have nothing again.  
  
~@~  
  
Hazel's. Someone vomits on the lawn. I see it turned from an invitation only event to a house party. My head is spinning slightly, with all the bodies and lights and sounds. My eyes are newly opened. I see Paige. I wonder why I want to talk to her. I see her fighting with Spinner. I'm gone. I see so much, so many, I'm back in bed, tossing. No, I'm here, at the party again, as someone has spilled pop all over me. I am, once again, waiting.  
  
"Hey, Heather," Hazel laughs, but not because of me. Her friends surround her, and she is beaming with pride. This is her shindig, such a success. She obviously has yet to see the vomit.  
  
"Hi," I say, but to no one, as she has left me once again. Jessica Simpson pours out of the stereo. I tap my fingers on my jeans. With you, she screams, I can do anything. I stop tapping my fingers. I head to kitchen, hoping that I'll slip on some tile and break my head open.  
  
Spinner has turned up here, talking to some guy. He's depressed, angry, frustrated. I sympathize from afar, grabbing a cup and sipping punch. I lean on the counter, eavesdropping like the true rebel I know I must be.  
  
"It's like she's on a different planet, dude," He shakes his head. "I don't know what her problem is."  
  
"Harsh, man," His friend nods with a lack of care. He isn't interested. He breaks into a smile. "Hey, I got something to cheer you up." He pulls something out of his pocket. I don't need to look. I become fascinated with my hair, stroking a lock intensely.  
  
"Dude," Spinner looks at his friend as though he's insane. "No way. Paige would kill me. Besides, it's stupid." He seemed almost doubtful now, the former reason overshadowing the latter.  
  
"Oh, I forgot," The guy laughs and puts it back in his pocket. "You're whipped like hell." Ah, men.  
  
"Dude, it's not that. I told you, it's stupid."  
  
"No, it's cool, dude," He says in a too innocent way. "I won't tell the other guys how freaking controlled you are by your little girlfriend. Though, it's pretty obvious, considering you don't do anything anymore, besides be a little love slave."  
  
"Dude, shut up," Spinner's voice fills with anger. "I am not whipped."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Prove it." It comes back out of his pocket. There is silence, tension. My hair can no longer hold my attention. I look up. I'm invisible. I feel myself wanting to break in, force down the wall.  
  
"I'll take some," I say it like an offer. I don't even know exactly why. They look at me as if I've fallen out of the sky.  
  
"Why don't you mind your own business?" and "Here you go, pretty lady, needed some off my hands" come at the same time. They stare at each other once again while I stare at the little white pill.  
  
"Fine." There is insult muttering and reluctance.  
  
Somewhere in between there and here we're in Hazel's bedroom, living but not breathing, touching but not feeling, talking but not hearing.  
  
It's just amazing now. I'm not thinking of fighting or feeling or fucking, but of absolute nothingness, and he's thinking with me, and our knees are touching, but not our hands, and I want to touch his hand, because he looks so soft, soft, soft like a cloud or a kitten or maybe just a soft person and my clothes are lifting off, off, off me but he doesn't even notice and I want him to notice me but he's stupid so, so, so stupid and I love him, I've always loved him, because he's so soft and understanding and it's just amazing, because he's thinking and I'm thinking and we both have wants and needs and I need him, I need to hear him think I need to hear him breathe. I straddle him, leaning on his forehead, waiting for his thoughts to wash on me and he doesn't notice, doesn't care, keeps babbling when I don't care, and we're both so connected, not caring and breathing and the world is pulsing and I'm pulsing and there is light, so much light. There is so sex or romance or friendship but there is a bond, such a bond much, much, much deeper, under our skin and digging our flesh and I hear my name over and over but I'm no longer Heather, I'm spinning, I'm Spin, I'm him but I'm me, we're us, I am an us. I'm not sure if I'll ever come down from the deep blueness or yellowness or pinkness or blackness of the sky and I don't care because when I was ten I was afraid of heights and I fell, fell, fell down and down and down but then I got back up with a broken leg and it hurt so bad but I'm not so scared anymore because I'm in love with the sky and tissues and the way his nose curves so softly, softly, softly and the amazing feeling that is his skin and the amazing love that is his not for me but for Paige who controls him when I set him free and now he'll love me because he'll know, know, know, because I tell him, in whispers too loud and I fall back and laugh because I'm so, so, so free now, free from chains and commitments and lies, lies, lies. He's wishing because I'm wishing because we're one, do you know, of course you do, it's so obvious, we're so here, and you're so there, and everywhere I go everyone wants, wants, wants but those teen movies prove to me, they say, people can be good and I know it and they applaud, they applaud me like they should because I am wonderful, feeling wonderful, being wonderful. Wonder, wonder, wonder. I can't think and I can't breathe I can only be, be here, be with him. We're so alike like shoe laces from the same pair of shoes so we just get tied up in each other's eyelets and I think of how weird it is that shoes have tongues and I wonder if Spinner's tongue is as soft as his skin and I realize it is because it is now touching mine in my soft, soft, soft mouth but that's all because we don't need to do anymore because we are shoelaces and a pair of us and kittens and I purr and he laughs and I've forgotten how to laugh so I try but I can't because I'm stuck, I'm stuck on him, us. He helps me, parting my lips once again, but I fall, fall, fall off the bed and crash on the floor, the soft yellowness of Hazel's carpet and I'm staring at the faces on her wall and they stare at me and I scream because they're so, so, so scary and he laughs and laughs and laughs because I'm funny, I'm actually funny, and I laugh too, because my lips have been kissed twice by a guy I never second glanced at, but now I love, love, love, and my arm feels broken, and I kick the table, and Jesus is there, watching me, and I can't believe it, watch, watch, watching, and Spinner laughs again as a lamp breaks, a blue lamp, and it's so loud I laugh, because broken lamps are like broken hearts and broken hearts are on the floor with me and I wonder if Spinner has ever broken a heart and someone's watching who isn't Jesus and it's Hazel, Hazel who is so, so sweet and so, so nice and deserves a friend medal, or a hug, so I give her a hug, and she laughs. No, she screams and yells and it hurts my head and I hurt all over and she tells me to leave, at least I think she does, but I'm thinking of choreography, but she's thinking of her broken lamp, so I leave her to mourn and I leave Spinner because I know we'll be together forever somewhere far, far, away from here, like Alaska or Italy or Frankfort, Kentucky, or maybe just here, here, here. And I'm no longer waiting, because I've found, found, found so much in a single night and I love, love, love that guy and Spinner and the yellow carpet and the broken hearts and the strange faces and Jesus and my shoelaces, because I'm not waiting, I'm not waiting anymore. I'm so, so, so found. 


	4. Hearing

A/N: Sorry for the delay.  
  
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I have spent eternity in a day. A constant threat of tears hovers. My body aches. The phone is my enemy. I stare and stare and stare but I only get a rare, undeserved heart attack for the occasional telemarketer-induced ring. And then I fall over on my bed and die, not wanting to speak to a soul. Except one soul.  
  
"Heather," Mom sticks her head in the door, "It's three in the afternoon."  
  
"Hmm?" I stare at my ceiling. My mouth hurts. My head hurts. My stomach is throbbing. I barely acknowledge my existence, let alone hers.  
  
"I think you should wake up," She suggests. I feel her start to pick the pieces of me up, like I usually do with her. When she's been dumped, when she's been fired, when she's lost her keys. She is so easily wounded, a butterfly with fragile wings. She slows for her injury, jogging instead of running. That's our difference. Everyone hurts me and I run faster.  
  
"I am awake, mother," I whisper. "Too awake."  
  
"Don't be dramatic," She's whining now. She has something to say. "I'm guessing you didn't have a good time. What is it? Boy troubles?"  
  
"Yes. And no."  
  
"You're going to have to give me more here."  
  
"I'm going to have to die here," I blink, forgetting what it is I'm saying. "Because this is a nice place. To die, I mean. In bed. Like a fortune cookie."  
  
"Honey," She's worried now. She puts her hand on my forehead. Her skin is so cold and smoothing, I just want to fall into it. "What's the matter? Are you okay?"  
  
"No," I say. "I'm not okay. I'm Heather Sinclair. I try too hard on everything. No one cares about what I say, just what is said about me. My mother, that's you, tries too. But you shouldn't try so hard just to fail. Because that's what I do. And you should learn from me. Like I've learned from you. And I'm tired." I grab her hand and try so hard. Suddenly I feel like I'm in the hospital and she's visiting me.  
  
Years of fake parenting have not prepared her for this. She's hesitant, wondering what she should say. The phone rings and my heart beats faster. I open my mouth, but I've forgotten how to speak. She picks it up.  
  
"Hello?" She pauses and purses her lips. "Why are you calling here?" She stands up and walks out of the room. I am cast off again. I contemplate the ceiling some more and a chill crawls down my back. I realize that I have forgotten how to think too.  
  
"Well," She walks back into my room, her arms crossed. I read somewhere that this is bad body language. You're putting a barrier between you and someone else. I try to sit up, break the barrier. My head is too heavy. "That was your father."  
  
"Yes?" I don't think about this. My father calls quite a lot. Not in a while, of course, considering Mom yelled at him last time he did, but he is still my father.  
  
"He's moving back," She sighs. "To his old apartment a few blocks from here." His old apartment smelled like take-out and Chanel. She leans against one of my blank walls. "I hate divorce. I wish I was allowed to hate him."  
  
"Too bad you're still in love with him." I don't know what I'm saying, of course. I don't sense the stiffing of my mother's back or her need to smack me.  
  
"I am not still in love with him," She says huffily, and I know she is. Like a teenager, hung up on a stupid crush. "You know I'm seeing someone." I don't know this, but I nod anyway. We're all allowed to pretend sometimes.  
  
"Besides," I add, "You don't even act like it's supposed to be friendly. He does."  
  
"That's because he doesn't want to feel guilty," She snaps. "He's afraid. He's happy, too. What with his new girlfriend and his damn artist's life." She feels guilty now. She half heartedly adds, "I meant darn." This was how it was divided up. Mom got the opportunity to try to be a good mother and fail miserably. Dad got to be happy. I grab her hand again. My self-pity is gone, though the pain isn't.  
  
"Well, he's coming over after school on Tuesday," She tells me. "So, won't you try to put all those things back on your walls? For me?" She's asking so much in such a little task. I nod and a silent dagger goes through my head. I wince and slide underneath the covers. I'm viewed in such a way that my mother is blinded. She cannot see my hang-over because it can't be there because I'm me, her little girl, lover of taffeta and popsicles and life. She smiles and exits. My life is a screenplay.  
  
I stare at where she has tossed the phone carelessly, the foot of my bed. It's not ringing. It is not going to ring. I kick it over and do my best to knock it under the bed. It does not belong to me anymore. I get up, slowly, and pull out the boxes. Posters, pictures, smiles... it's all so foreign. I dump all the band and celebrity scrolls into a pile and I'm met with the real memories. My breath catches in my throat. I am undone.  
  
The first picture is two little girls, smothered in red stickiness and baby teeth. They're blonde and bonded completely, sisters practically. I feel my blood flowing. I've started breathing again. The same little girls stick out at me, waving, grinning, growing up slowly, moving from Gerber's to giggles to guys, gradually. There are so many, but not nearly enough to frame their friendship. It is too vast, simply complicated, developed into a sisterhood and a companionship. They are laced into each other, deep underneath the skin.  
  
The last picture of these girls is distant, fading, pulled apart. They stand a fair distance apart, hands on each other's lower backs, smiling for the camera but not the moment. They've grown, they've parted, they've argued. They no longer need to spend every moment with each other or hear each other's dreams or know where they will always be. They are a rope on it's last thread, waiting to be cut. And it is. Cut cleanly with words.  
  
I gather the pictures and slowly, tears streaming, cover my walls with them, interjecting family snapshots and birthday cards. The old Britney Spears poster, faded and dog-eared, blends into the blondeness of it all. I tape the last picture by my bed. Paige smiles me at amusedly, almost coldly. She touches my photographed self as lightly as she can. She knew, I knew. I don't know now. I don't remember what tore us so. No, what faded us so. I remember the tear.  
  
Ashley Kerwin. Her face appears, though young, innocent, bouncy. She owns a knowledge now. An accepting one. Paige envied her, I could tell. They competed. Ashley let Paige win the fight, really. Or did she? I debate the question, sometimes, when it comes.  
  
And then I think of the Heather/Paige tête-à-tête turned torture. We were best friends. Her blood flowed through my veins. We shared clothes and interests and crushes. I was her partner in crime, an accessory and a confidant in one. I was her anklet with an ear.  
  
Then, there was conflict, as there always is in perfection. We were, are, were enemies. Rivals. There were rumors spread. We competed, raced. And we still do today.  
  
But I've fallen. Tripped, faded, torn. Nothing and everything has changed. I look the same, but no one looks anymore. I've become a name, famous to infamous. What was a competition is now a joke, a few discarded words spit. As many arguments in Degrassi, it faded with time, but my position remains. I do not matter anymore. I have no agent, I have no friends, I have no life.  
  
What a bitter freedom it is.  
  
I touch the walls. I am my room now. The door, slathered with stickers and hearts and Heathers, faded in past. Empty inside.  
  
The phone rings from under my bed. I close my eyes where tears have swelled and let it ring.  
  
"Heather! Phone!" Please, let this be a cruel joke. Let me just sit here.  
  
"Tell them I'm busy." I've surprised even myself. I climb under the covers.  
  
"He says it's really important," She sticks her head in now, the phone pressed against her chest. She makes an expression and I want to shoot her. Again.  
  
"Tell HIM I've broken my wrist. Or caught a tropical disease. A fatal one. With monkey hallucinations." But it is too late now because she has shoved the phone under my chin and I've just told Spinner I am tropically diseased.  
  
"Heather." I cringe. My adoration is rushing back and my mind is cramping up the way my hand does when I write too rapidly.  
  
"We, uh, need to talk." I remember these words from thousands of times before and I remember hating such words. It's been such a long time since anyone has needed to talk to me. Anyone.  
  
"About, you know." I know. No, I don't know. I don't know what happened and I don't know what's happening now because my heat is beating so fast and my hands are so cold and I'm shivering and I itch all over but all I can feel is the phone in my hand.  
  
"Heather? Are you there?" No, no, I'm not. But I don't open my mouth because I'm afraid that if I do my heart will fly out and flop around like a fish out of water. I hear my name twice before the dial tone and I hear myself drop the phone, but none of this really happens because I cannot feel my body anymore because I feel the deep need to crumble into a small existence and never again hear. 


	5. Okay Promises

"Heather!" I am once again disturbed by my name. I look over. The pain has faded and the laziness has settled. I bury myself into the pillow. "Dude, I called you like three times." I blink. Spinner? I look up and there he is. "We really need to talk."  
  
I clear my throat. "Okay." I motion for him to sit on the end of the bed. He does so, awkwardly, uncomfortably.  
  
"Um, I just wanted to like, clear things up."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Uh, last night? You know it was, um... just the drugs."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And, uh, we're not like..." He motions between us. He's an idiot. He's my idiot. "Together." He's an idiot. He's somebody else's idiot.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Um, just in case you like, thought, you know... something else."  
  
"Okay." He stares at me. I flinch.  
  
"Dude, aren't you going to say anything else?"  
  
I think for a moment. I want to tell him that it wasn't the drugs it's the human connection and for once someone actually looked into me and saw me and when he touched me I didn't wince or pull away and I didn't think I was such a dirty whore just because I prostitute my looks and while I can give three adjectives for one noun and I can only think of one for him, 'Amazing', but apparently I think too long for him because he stands up.  
  
"Oh, and don't tell anyone," He says before he disappears. Of fucking course. Who does Heather Sinclair tell? Who is she supposed tell?  
  
~@~  
  
"Please pass the potatoes," I say, but I'm not looking at the potatoes or the potato passer that is my mother, I'm looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably, soaking in the atmosphere. My mother smiles sympathetically at him. I don't know why. She has to live with me all the time.  
  
The boyfriend dinner. Vaguely familiar, highly uncomfortable. I put potatoes on my plate. I don't eat them. I look at their plates. No one is eating; everyone is sculpting and digging and cultivating their potatoes but not once does anything reach their mouths. I take a big bite of potato. It tastes like regret. His regret, specifically. I know I shouldn't have dated a single mom, he thinks. I hate kids. This, of course, I don't actually know, but I pretend just as well as I always have.  
  
"Good potatoes, Mom," I say, shoveling more into my mouth.  
  
"Yes, very good," He says quickly, guilt a quick dagger in his heart. He begins to eat them, slowly chewing. They aren't actually good at all. They're okay, though, the word of the day. They shoot each other glances and I want to shoot myself while she tries to think of wholesome dinner conversation.  
  
"So, Luke," I say, though I'm not sure that's his name, "What do you do?"  
  
"I'm, uh, an accountant," he clears his throat.  
  
"Interesting," I say, though it is truly not.  
  
"He's Christine's accountant," Mom offers me a tossed salad of useless information. "And a very good one."  
  
"Uh, thank you," He blushes. Embarrassed by his superior accounting skills.  
  
"May I be excused?" I put down my fork. For a second, my mother blinks, looks at me, expecting me to know an absolute no, give myself a lecture. But I don't. And I leave.  
  
I go outside and sit on the lawn and look up at the sky because something about wet dew on bare feet is a cliché I can't avoid. Everything spins and of course I think of Spinner because I only have one thought. One single solitary thought that keeps me breathing.  
  
"Did I do a horrible job raising you or something?" Mom appears, grass sitting to her feet, kneeling down next to me. I shake my head quietly. "Do you hate me so much you can't give him a chance?"  
  
"No, I just..." I stop, because there really isn't anything to say here. She wraps her arms around me and I melt into her chest because maternal adoration is the only kind with true second chances.  
  
"I can make things better," She whispers into my hair. "I promise." 


	6. Hesitating

A/N: Sorry to take forever. I had a bad cause of Suckuitisis. Enjoy.  
  
It is, or was, or will be common in some obscure areas of the world to sacrifice a random member of a tribe to whatever power may be. I always figured I couldn't be sacrificed; who would they shun? But now, as I contemplate the meaning of the world 'sacrifice', my theory is suddenly utterly chicken or the egg. Which came first... the Heather or the sacrifice?  
  
Hazel looks at me and I look at Spinner and Spinner looks at no one, feeling in his pocket. I imagine what is in his pocket as Hazel imagines a rope around my neck, the-best-friend's-man-stealer hanged because she is a skank. Welcome to the human fucking race, Hazel Aden. At least, that's what I want to say, but I don't because of the lump in Gavin 'Spinner' Mason's pocket that could be a thousand and one things. A necklace for Paige, or maybe just some change, or maybe even some E. Heather, I imagine him saying. Dude. Want to, you know...  
  
Then he makes me say it but I don't say it because he doesn't say anything in the first place. I sigh and run my finger across my jaw because he's stupid. Or because I feel something there. It is my hair and I'm imaging things again. I determine my entire life is imaginary and before I can deeply analyze this thought, tear it apart and leave it marooned on the floor, the bell rings and I slowly pick up books and papers.  
  
Hazel hesitates, waiting for me at the door, but I hesitate for Spinner, who hesitates in general, waiting for us to leave. We hesitate and wait, but this endless triangle of not doing anything kills me so I make the first move for the door.  
  
"Heather!" Hazel touches my arm, stopping me. I stop and look at her. "We need to talk." I watch Spinner as she pulls me to the side. I see him moving inside the classroom, reaching in his pocket again. What IS it?  
  
"Yeah?" I'm not paying attention to her, because I know what she'll say, what she wants to say.  
  
"I've really been debating all weekend whether or not to tell Paige about..." She hesitates yet again. "About the party. I would have done it in a second already but... well, Paige really... really loves Spinner and I can't believe he'd do this without..." She stops but I'm not offended because I've already stopped listening. Spin glances at us and turns quickly away. Now it is he alone who is waiting for our exit. He goes into his pocket and then to his mouth, like something has hit him in the face.  
  
"What I'm saying is," Hazel says finally, "Are you going to go after Spinner, or was this the last time?"  
  
"I'm not interested in Spinner," I reply, staring at him. "I never was. I was just a little... uninhibited for some reason." I look directly into her eyes. "You don't have to tell Paige because there is nothing to tell. Nothing actually happened. And nothing will." I see doubt in her eyes, shaking in little pearls in the back of her mind, but she nods anyway.  
  
"Okay," She says, her doubt coating her voice like honey. I smile as if to say, 'It's okay, I wouldn't believe me either,' but it fails and my smile turns into a half smile which melts into a frown as she walks away. I glance at Spinner and know what the lump was. He pulls out the contents and looks at it intently in his hand. A crumbled Pop tart rests in his palm as I turn and walk away from the room. 


	7. The Girl In The Magazines

A/N: To respond to that Goth-chick-esque-type-wonderful-reviewer (Ahem, Goth-girl2), no, Heather Sinclair has never actually appeared on the show, hence the mystery and freedom I own with this story.  
  
I try, and fail, to vomit up the last few days as I lie on the washroom floor. It's sixth period but I have no intention of going to class because it is so nice here, among the toilet paper and tampons. I forgot, I haven't eaten today, but still a bitter taste remains from something I've been chewing for the last, oh, I don't know, lifetime?  
  
A curtain of hair covers my face and as I brush it away I think of how annoying it truly is, being female. Hair and face, eyes and lips, open mouths like a fly trap. Like men are flies and we are just leading them into death. They are called Venus Flytraps for a reason, after all. I dare to exit my stall, walls hugging me in, to look at the mirror. There is a soft streak of unblended foundation on my jaw, and I realize now that I have been masking my face for two years now. When people look at me, what they look at is Maybelline. Neutrogena. A girl in the magazines. They see long hair, blemish-less skin; plump, kissable lips. A wish; a death wish. I cannot reach for the paper towels faster.  
  
Covered with soap and water, the rough paper turns my natural skin a rosy shade, the color it turns when someone looks at me. Without cover-up, I see the adolescent skin. Soft pink craters, freckles that formed sometime when I wasn't looking. My lips are chapped, the color of a dusty, dried, and dead rose. My bruised, sleepless eyes are foreign in the light; the same eyes I despise at night, that I cover during the day. Make-up-less, I am ugly. And here, in the girls' washroom, with no shield between reality and my skin, I'm no longer worried.  
  
As I dry my skin and tearless eyes, my hair falls and rests in the sink like a snake, waiting to strike me. That is when I make an executive decision, reach in my bag, and strike the snake, letting it fall dead in the washroom sink. Now, as I look in the mirror, one third of my hair comes to my chin. Before I can say, 'Oops', the rest matches, uneven and amateur. The locks in the sink are like soldiers in a lost battle, motionless and bleeding.  
  
The bells rings and it hits me that I have no fucking clue what I have done. Hastily, I shove my hair into my bag and leave. I nearly knock Manny Santos over as she walks in, but I'm moving too quickly to feel anything. Faster than the speed of touch. I'm leaving a trail of strands behind me, like Gretel. My name is Gretel, not Heather. Don't look at me.  
  
I burst through the doors of Degrassi Community School before I can begin to comprehend the protests. I'm moving, moving, moving, but I can't move fast enough for myself. My feet are running ahead of me, willing me to trip, but I will not let the snakes I leave behind catch me. Finally, I give up and just drop my bag, leaving behind everything I've tried so hard for. I don't think of the contents specifically, because even thoughts are slowing me down now; I've just got to keep moving, moving, moving. I settle on Incredible, a light thought. Incredible. Incredible, Incredible. Incredible.  
  
Incredible takes me to the park until I reach a picnic table and collapse. The trees create lace in the sky, like the veins in a human arm. I trace my own veins but all I can really think of is how Paige's head sometimes looks like a heart because her face keeps appearing in the branches. I'm sorry, Paige. I cannot help that I'm stupid and he's stupid and we're a pair. I cannot help that you get everything and this is the one thing I want. Just someone.  
  
and had the snakes not come off, maybe I could have gotten it. 


	8. Falling In A Pit

A/N: By the way, folks, I have made a Barcode VIDEO. Yes, yes, I am that much of an overachiever. Please, if you wish to view said video, leave a review with your email and/or AIM SN (preferably a SN, but I'm not that picky), and lovely thoughts on my story.  
  
I watch Heather as she sleeps on the picnic table, one leg dragged off the side, hands in curled fists. Tiny ballerina fighter, kicking ass as she dreams she can. But as I wake up, I realize I am Heather, and I am gravely disappointed.  
  
Small snatches of coconut float in the air; no, not coconut, snow. They cling to my eyelashes and fill in the cracks where patches of snow have melted. I rub my arms. Sometime from when I fell asleep to when I woke up, the warmth went away. The sky has set itself aflame with bold oranges and tangerines while the rest of the world is extinguished quietly. Watch- less, I watch the snow with no sense of time. My hands have frozen. My touch is like ice. I am a motionless snow angel.  
  
I see how still I can be as I think of Spinner and Paige and cryptograms. So still, that if someone were to walk by, they would think that I'm frozen solid. It was an unfortunate day to chop off all my hair. I think about my mother only briefly before I fall headfirst onto the ground. The earth seems like a Popsicle. A dirt Popsicle. I taste it in my mind, the way the earth tastes. Like a cloud of dancing happiness and Jesus Christ, I want some more E. I remember the way emotions rushed in my head, like a glass of water. One drop of joy became a flood, a parade. The high drowned out the sound of other people, hated people, people trying to spoil my fun. I close my eyes and I feel Spinner's tongue. Jesus Christ, I want some E. And I want to be with him. But mostly, I just want that oblivion again. It was worth the next day. It was so worth everything.  
  
I taste more of my dirt Popsicle before finally getting up and realizing there is no place to go. Going home means facing Mother Dearest. Staying here means dying from the cold. I start walking before surrendering myself to the latter.  
  
It would be helpful, I realize now, to have friends in situations like this. After best friend status with Paige fell, I felt I needed no one. Being Heather Sinclair, drugged-up, buck-toothed, agent-having, lame- party-throwing, whore with a 4.0 GPA Heather Sinclair had been enough. I lived a fictionalized life. While everyone else was giggling in the girl's room and failing midterms I was... I don't know. Vacationing in the Bahamas, backpacking through Europe. Deserted on an uninhabited island with a hunky Turkish boy. Just somewhere else, not living the life they thought I was. When I was studying, they were partying. Yet somehow, in some odd twist of fate, the stories got swapped around. Who was Heather Sinclair to befriend when the world was against her?  
  
There are a thousand places I could go, really. The Dot Grill, a movie theater. I could be picked up by a nice stranger, thirty years my senior, and flirt my way to British Columbia where I could start a new life as Seather Hinclair, a quirky yet adorable chick who collects tea towels and cries in romantic comedies.  
  
Can you change who you are? Hell yeah! All it takes is an easy ride and a girlish smile. Trust me.  
  
But instead of going to The Dot, or a movie, or the back alley where cars sometimes pass through, looking for desperate young things, I have somehow ended up on Ellie Nash's front doorstep.  
  
We worked on a project together, Ellie and me and Marco, I the actress (as I was a budding one at the time), Marco the actor, and Ellie, our fabulous director. But beyond that, we aren't friends. She owes me nothing. She doesn't even have to open the stupid door. But she does, camera in hand, looking surprised.  
  
"Ellie," I say. "How about a guest?"  
  
"Come again?" She stares at me blankly.  
  
"It's cold," I reply. "I can't go home. Can I come in?"  
  
"What...," She trails off, closes her eyes, shakes her head. "Yeah, of course, come in." I follow her gratefully, sucking in all warmth I can.  
  
"Where's your mother?" I question. I know her father is in the military, so I don't ask about him.  
  
"She's around," She says vaguely. "Or something. Look, can I get you something... you look soaked. Clothes?"  
  
"No, it's fine," I say. "Could I just use your phone?" She points and I follow her gaze, dialing my own number.  
  
"Mother?"  
  
"Heather? Where the FUCK are you?"  
  
"I... got stuck in a pit. The police just got me out."  
  
"What? Why did no one call me? Are you lying?"  
  
"No, Mother. That's the truth. I took a detour. I couldn't speak. I'm at Ellie's house. I am strongly fatigued."  
  
"Why do you sound so weird? What's the real story, Heather? I was so worried." I wonder if someone is there.  
  
"That's the truth. I fell asleep after falling in a pit. Someone finally found me. I'm okay. I'll be home..." And now I hang up, because I don't know when I'll be home.  
  
"I see you're really specific," Ellie smirks at me and I smirk at her and I almost cannot take the way the questions are floating around, pressing against me, like a balloon about to explode. She doesn't know why I'm here, or my shoe size. I don't know why she let me in, or her birth date. What could we possibly talk about? 


End file.
